


This Is What Makes the Difference

by Artemis1000



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Romance, Sibling Incest, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:29:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/pseuds/Artemis1000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very little has changed since they became lovers, but sometimes the most meaningful changes  are the ones so minute that you barely notice them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is What Makes the Difference

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Content Advice: Incest, smut

All things considered, very little has changed.

 

Lovino doesn’t like to think about it or about this whole relationship thing at all, really. It’s fucking embarrassing and he’s no swooning girl, damn it…

 

But every now and then, it hits him like a ton of bricks. They are together and barely anything has changed.

 

“…can’t believe I’m doing all the fucking work, you lazy bastard,” he goes on after a pause and smacks the cup of coffee down in front of Feliciano with a particularly sullen glare. He deserves it for making him think wimpy thoughts.

 

“You made breakfast, Lovi!” Feliciano squeals and meets his glare with nauseatingly shiny, happy eyes. That’s the only reason his stomach flutters a bit, it’s churning in _disgust_! He has no reason to sound so surprised in the first place; it’s not as if Lovino doesn’t make breakfast every morning. It’s their time-saving routine on weekdays; Lovino makes breakfast while Feliciano makes the bed. They’ve always had problems getting out of bed on time and it’s only gotten worse since they discovered there are better things to do in the morning than turning around and going back to sleep.

 

Lovino busies himself with his own cup of coffee so he can blame the sudden flush in his cheeks on the steam. He’s too irritated to sit down, thus he chooses to lean against the counter while he sips on his coffee and watches Feliciano spread jam on his toast. He’s humming and kicking his heels against the legs of his chair like the child he is at heart.

 

Lovino’s fingers twitch around the handle of his cup. It would be so easy to take the cup and upend it over the little pest’s head… But chances are, that would just make him _louder_.

 

Feliciano isn’t good at being quiet. No matter what the rest of the world thinks, it’s one of his less endearing traits in Lovino’s eyes and that hasn’t changed a whit – except when… Lovino feels his cheeks flush. Anyway! In the mornings, when Lovino just wants silence and coffee to come to terms with the hateful fact that he can’t slip right back into bed, Feliciano’s noisiness skips ‘less endearing’ and goes right into ‘fucking annoying’ territory.

 

“Feli,” he growls as he catches sight of his brother’s hand sneaking towards the radio.

 

If the idiot’s going to play cheerful music, there will be one less Italy in the world.

 

“Ve~” Feliciano coos and the bland, far too innocent smile tells Lovino that that was exactly what he had intended to do. Then, he giggles. Little fucker actually has the nerve to giggle. “Fratello is grumpy in the mornings!”

 

“You would be grumpy, too, if you had to put up with yourself!” Lovino snaps before he can filter the words.

 

“Ve,” Feliciano says again, but it’s a soft sound now, tinged with hurt he tries and fails to hide. He ducks his head and Lovino hates it because he looks like a kicked puppy and his stomach is clenching with guilt and… Feliciano is such a fucking bother.

 

He sighs explosively and decides to voice that thought aloud. “You’re troublesome.” Then he crosses what little distance separates the small table from the kitchen counter. As he knew he would, Feliciano looks up. He’s always been too curious for his own good. Still holding his cup of coffee in one hand, he cups Feliciano’s chin in the other and leans down. He licks a smear of jam from the corner of Feliciano’s mouth and raises himself to his full height again before he can react. A tiny smirk tugs at his lips as he watches Feliciano’s face go red. It’s only fair; he can feel his own cheeks burning. “Can’t even eat without making a mess,” he grumbles.

 

Feli pouts and flashes him another kicked puppy look, this one fake. His eyes are all sparkly again. He swipes his forefinger through the jam on his toast. Before Lovino can ask what the hell he is doing, Feliciano takes the jam-covered finger and wipes it over Lovino’s lips. “Whoops. Now Lovino needs to be cleaned, too.”

 

“Idiot.” There is no heat behind his words and Feliciano knows it. Without further protest, Lovino watches him stand up and come close, so very close that he could name the exact shade of Feliciano’s eyes if he were poetically inclined. Then he feels Feliciano’s breath tickle the heated skin of his face. He smells of strawberry and caffe latte. Feliciano’s eyelids fluttering shut is the last thing he sees before his own follow suit. Feliciano’s lips brush against his, they are warm and soft and so excruciatingly gentle. His tongue laps at his mouth, cleaning him of the jam but never slipping past his invitingly parted lips.

 

Lovino’s temper is infamous all over the globe. His impatience is only slightly less infamous.

 

Feliciano isn’t even half done by the time Lovino’s patience wears thin. He grabs him by the scruff of his neck and hauls him closer for a real kiss, clashing teeth, tongue and Feliciano wriggling like a fish on land as he tries to impersonate a human-shaped octopus.

 

There is some jostling, some jumbling and suddenly, painful wet heat soaking through his shirt.

 

Lovino tears himself away from Feliciano, already cursing a mile a minute. He isn’t at all surprised to find a large brown stain on his dress shirt. “You fucking idiot!” he bellows as he throws his empty cup onto the table. “Look what you did!”

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!” Feliciano whimpers and rubs at the stain frantically. Somehow, he manages to get coffee all over Lovino’s _pants_ as well.

 

Lovino slaps his hands away and stomps to the door, wondering all the while why he isn’t even surprised. Trust Feliciano to make a mess out of everything. “Now I’ll have to get changed! That…” Lovino trails off and his eyes narrow with sudden suspicion. But Feliciano continues to look chagrined. He’s wearing that kicked puppy face again. “This is an Armani shirt!” he hisses, just in case he’s underestimating Feliciano’s acting skills. He’s all for excuses to get naked, but not if his designer clothes have to pay the price. “We’re not made of fucking money!”

 

“I _know_ ,” Feliciano says in an annoyed, high-pitched whine, “I said I’m sorry!”

 

It had been an honest mistake, Lovino has to admit grudgingly. Feliciano is a crap actor. He can feel his cheeks burn hot again and for the life of him, he can’t say if he’s more embarrassed because he had thought of such a perverted thing at all or because he is disappointed that Feliciano hadn’t thought of it first.

 

 

They get to work half an hour late. Their first meeting just happens to be with Hungary.

 

Her lecherous grin makes Lovino wish for a cup of hot coffee to spill over her.

 

 

They have lunch in the same room at the same time, but not together.

 

Feliciano sits at one end of the parliament’s restaurant, discussing Naples’ garbage disposal problem with a group of politicians, while Lovino is being talked at by half a dozen lobbyists lobbying for… Well, he isn’t quite sure. He thinks the man in the ridiculous pinstripe suit is working for the tourism industry, but it might be the terracotta industry, after all.

 

He wishes they had never decided to share their tasks by expertise rather than location. His delegates have long since grown used to his temper; the economic monkeys would run crying to the boss.

 

It is a common misconception that the Italian nations don’t work as hard as the others.

 

They simply have the luxury of there being two of them.

 

When one of them has a bad week or year or decade, the other will pull up the slack.

 

The whole world has been suffering from a few miserable years now and they can’t afford to do any less than their best.

 

So they spend their days working the political grind mills of Rome and Brussels, doing what nations do. There is very little saving the world and a lot of tiresome routine work. Everyone wants a minute of their time, believing that if the nations favor their proposals, so will the entire country – or just wanting the Italies’ seal of approval so they can rub it in their opponents’ faces. Lovino is all for malicious glee and showing the bastards who is boss, but not if it wastes time he could spend growing tomatoes or doing _stuff_ with Feliciano or watch the grass grow. He has spent some damn fine quality hours watching the grass grow. Doing absolutely nothing is _hard work._

 

“…fishing quotas…”

 

Oh wait, Pinstripe represents the tuna industry.

 

Picturing himself stuffing tuna down the annoying man’s throat until he chokes on it only entertains Lovino for half a run-on sentence full of bureaucratic lingo. It all boils down to ‘do as I say’ anyway.

 

He is just about ready to stab them all to death his ridiculously blunt dinner knife when warm breath tickles his cheek – and then he’s just about ready to punch whoever is getting up close and personal with him.

 

Scowling, he turns his head to glare right into Feliciano’s gentle, amused eyes. Lovino doesn’t straighten out his fist hastily, nor does he look the least bit chagrined. Feliciano would have _deserved_ a kiss with a fist for sneaking up on him, the damn idiot. So naturally, since he’s not embarrassed at all, he goes right back to glowering at his food and stabbing the steak. He would rather be stabbing his company, Feli included, life’s just not fair.

 

“Ve~ is fratello having fun? The food is very yummy today, isn’t it?”

 

Alright, he _is_ embarrassed. But who wouldn’t? Lovino prays to God the monkeys in a suit are too dumb to think anything of Feliciano wrapping his arms around him from behind and nuzzling his cheek and… _Oh fuck_ … Feliciano breathing into his ear like this is awakening base instincts that have no business being awake in the parliament’s crowded restaurant. “Get off, idiot!” he snarls and there’s no denying it anymore that his face is bright red.

 

Naturally, the little fucker thinks it’s absolutely _hilarious_. Why anyone believes that Feliciano is sweet and innocent is utterly beyond Lovino, he is _sadistic_ , that’s what he is.

 

So Feliciano giggles like the idiot he is and then he takes it one step farther and ruffles Lovino’s hair.

 

“You stupid little fuck, don’t mess with my hair!” Lovino snarls, but he doesn’t slap Feliciano’s hands away. Not that he’s enjoying it, of course, he’s just being too damn nice for his own good. Out of the corner of his eyes, he notes the lobbyists’ outraged expressions. Serves the bastards right.

 

“Don’t be late to the presentation, fratello. You know boss gets upset if we make him look bad,” Feliciano says if he hadn’t just been yelled at. Then he pats Lovino’s shoulder, chirps, “have fun!” and he is gone as quickly as he had appeared.

 

After an awkward moment of silence, Pinstripe goes back to talking about fishing quotas.

 

If anyone would think to ask him, he would deny until his dying breath that this mere moment in Feliciano’s company had sufficed to make even Pinstripe’s boring speech bearable.

 

Lovino, meanwhile, can’t wait for the presentation. Shut up. Export possibilities for drinking water demineralization devices are a fucking _fascinating_ topic.

 

 

While their routine has remained mostly unchanged, the differences are in the details – and sometimes, they’re quite obvious.

 

They still watch football together.

 

Feliciano still hasn’t gotten tired of sulking because Venice doesn’t play in the Seria A anymore. Lovino sulks about it as well, but in a _dignified_ way, thank you very much. He isn’t going to get teary-eyed over some water-treading idiots’ incapability to score a goal. If he misses their heated cheering matches during Venice vs. Naples games, then it’s just because he misses gloating over his team’s victories. Never mind that he gloats over every victory of a southern Italian team against a northern one, he isn’t _nostalgic_. He isn’t sappy and whoever claims anything different can discuss it with his fist!

 

Unless it’s Feliciano, he gets away with such things. Because he can’t pay his betting debt with a broken jaw. It’s got nothing to do with Lovino letting him get away with shit because he likes him. He’s just being Machiavellian. It’s _Italian_.

 

He elbows Feliciano extra hard in the ribs to prove his point and snorts. “Stop talking shit and watch the fucking game, idiot.”

 

Feliciano squeals as if he had been speared, but a moment later he returns to cuddling against Lovino’s side and Lovino returns to pretending he doesn’t like it.

 

They go back to watching the Coppa Italia game, cheering for their respective teams.

 

That is a time-honored ritual as well. If northern teams play against southern ones, they cheer for their half. If Rome plays, they both cheer for Rome. Technically, Rome is Lovino’s city, but it’s been theirs ever since it became their unified nation’s capital.

 

By the time Feliciano’s team is two goals down, Feliciano is sprawled all over the couch, his head in Lovino’s lap, nimble tongue licking, teasing. His feet swing cheerfully in the air to the tune of the fan hymns blasting out of the TV set.

 

Lovino buries a hand in his hair and pulls his head up. Feliciano meets his gaze out of hooded eyes. Lovino wipes a drop of precum from Feliciano’s chin with his thumb. He rubs it over his lips; Feliciano sucks his thumb into his mouth and twirls his tongue around it. Lovino stifles a groan, his eyes fall shut. He forces them open again and stares wide-eyed at the TV screen. “Don’t you want to watch the game?” he grinds out between clenched teeth. He’s not going to be doing any gloating if he is begging Feliciano for harder, faster, more.

 

Feliciano licks his lips languidly. “My team’s going to lose. I thought I would get a head start on your victory celebration.”

 

That sweet little trill shoots straight to his groin. Lovino curses heatedly. He knows how it’s going to end, with him on his back on the couch or the floor and by the second or third round, finally the bed. Lovino’s pretty damn sure being ravished by his fucking _baby brother_ is not winning.

 

Then he bats these large, innocent eyes, but that innocence is so deceptive right now. “I’ve been waiting all day to do this.”

 

Lovino’s breath catches in his throat. Well, fuck it, if that isn’t… The day replays before his eyes, every little accidental brush of their shoulders, Feliciano’s hand lingering on his longer than was appropriate, these pouty lips hot against the nape of his neck in a stolen moment of privacy, that sweet curl of his lips as he spoke about the importance of Italian unity to the ministers and Lovino was the only one who read a completely different speech between the lines.

 

“Did you?” he asks hoarsely.

 

Feliciano purses his lips and coos. He lowers his head again and answers in the way Lovino decides he likes best.

 

One of the most annoying quirks of his brother is how loud he is in everything he does – and even when he does nothing at all. There he is, slurping, sucking, moaning; making such a ridiculous racket when you would think that having a dick shoved down his throat should shut him up. Lovino can’t think of anything hotter, the commentator yelling about a penalty shot is reduced to buzzing white noise.

 

The next time he raises his head, Feliciano’s lips glisten white. Lovino licks them clean, then he slips his tongue into Feliciano’s mouth and doesn’t release him until he has captured every last trace of himself. It is the only way in which his pride will ever permit him to say ‘thank you.’

 

He is still too blown away to spit curses at Feliciano and shove him off when he slips a slick finger into him. Feliciano has always been infuriatingly sneaky off the battlefield.

 

Soon enough, he finds himself on his back, threatening Feliciano with cement shoes and a bath in the harbor of Naples if he doesn’t _fucking get on with it_ because he’s not quite lost himself enough to be begging. On the bright side for his ego, he’s not on all fours or bent over a table, but that isn’t Feliciano’s style anyway. Feliciano is a romantic; he likes to look into his eyes while he fucks him.

 

He’s just teasing him now, though, trying to see if he can get him to beg. Until he goes still, anyway, eyes focused on the TV.

 

Lovino turns his head to the side to check what has caught Feliciano’s attention, gut already clenching with dread. Did some catastrophe occur? Another terrorist attack? A natural disaster? Not in Italy, obviously, they would have felt that, but…

 

It’s a pasta commercial.

 

Lovino’s hands twitch with murderous intent. “Feli, I fucking swear if you…”

 

Feliciano fills him in one thrust; the times when he used to be meek have long since passed. “I like you better than pasta!” he trills and then he goes systematically about reducing Lovino to begging.

 

By the time the late-night news are on, Lovino is still on the couch, but upright again, with Feliciano curled up against his side. His fingertips draw lazy circles on Feliciano’s thigh while he murmurs dire threats into his ear. He will tear off his balls and stuff them down his throat if anyone notices him walking funnily at all tomorrow.

 

Feliciano giggles. He coos a happy, “Ve~!” as if it had been a love confession and nuzzles his chin.

 

“Idiot,” Lovino snorts, rests his chin on the top of Feliciano’s head and goes back to glowering at the news. His creative threats are wasted on the dumbass anyway.

 

They talk in hushed whispers of the day they had and their plans for tomorrow. Feliciano mentions that he hasn’t visited Ludwig in a while; Lovino goes off on a rant about potato bastards, which his brother ignores with the same cheerful abandon as ever. They agree on pizza for dinner and spending the weekend in their Florence home.

 

Feliciano is asleep before the weather forecast promises them sunshine and scattered clouds.

 

Soon, Lovino promises himself, he will wake him with an elbow jab. Just another moment… Feliciano’s been dropped on the head too often if he thinks Lovino will break his back carrying him to bed like a child.

 

In the morning, he will be grumpy and Feliciano will be annoying as hell, but right now, he is perfectly content sitting here and simply _being_.

 

There is one big difference, after all: Lovino is happy.

 

The end


End file.
